


Left Hand

by CTippy



Series: Falling, Catching [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Love, mention of previous instalments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:19:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CTippy/pseuds/CTippy
Summary: He was certain his left hand would never be as the one he had lost.





	Left Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This took a lot of time and work, despite not being that long. I want to thank Aerest for proposing this idea to me, for having given me some confidence back after I had starting to feel as if I had worked so hard for nothing, and also for being the best beta ever. <3
> 
> In this piece there are slight references to the previous instalments of this series.
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes you may find, English is not my native language.

He was certain his left hand would never be as the one he had lost. It felt forced instead of natural, making him look clumsy and awkward. It was strenuous and frustrating. Everything he used to do effortlessly had suddenly become difficult, taking a great deal of time and patience. A patience he had always lacked.

The thought of having to wield a sword would be hateful at times; as much work as he put in it, there seemed to be no way for him to recover the prowess he had once possessed. He endured painful blisters, spasms, bruises. He bore failure time and time again. His skin had turned rough, his fingers calloused - still it wasn't enough. And yet, he could not yield. He would not.

He would spend hours alone repeating the exact same strokes and parries again and again, fighting each lesson learned when he was only a boy at Casterly Rock, each movement absorbed and made instinct by body and mind. He would only stop when exhaustion took him.

He could not fully depend on his swordsmanship anymore, so his eyes would observe the best fighters in the camp, analysing every movement, studying each stroke, seeking any flaws that could lead to an opening. His gaze would ofttimes follow her as she bested one man after another with thoughtful strategy and agile strength. It seemed to him she had improved since their fight in the woods. A smile hovered over his lips as she knocked her opponent into the dust yet again.

Time saw him accepting his flaws and embracing his new-found strengths; if his only hand could not brandish a sword as effectively as his right did, then he would find another way, he had decided. Constant training had made his body more responsive, his arm stronger, his movements faster, allowing him to master new techniques. He had grown more patient, more resilient, more cunning. His confidence thrived on each blow he parried, on every stroke he inflicted, on all the vain efforts to unarm him. . .but only when he succeeded in catching her off-guard – surprise filling her big blue eyes – did his heart sing.

As much as swinging the training sword for hours could be frustrating, having to deal with seemingly manageable actions was no less vexing. He could grab and hold most objects rather easily now - no longer instinctively reaching with his right arm, but there were things simply too elaborate to do for a man with only one hand. Putting his breeches on by himself had become easier but it would still take him time, holding them up with his prosthetic as he tried to tie the laces in some way. He had always disliked writing so he never put much effort into it, his strokes still looking shaky and slightly crooked. Eating remained quite a challenging task whenever the use of both fork and knife was required, so when he had his meals alone he would ofttimes resort to tearing the meat with his teeth. The first time they had supped together in his tent, she had silently cut his meat for him in firm yet graceful motions, her eyes never meeting his. She would keep doing it every time they ate in each other's company, and he would let her.

There were things he had come to appreciate about his situation. It had forced him to lose an identity made of lies and bitterness. It had awakened him, making him the man he was now.

He would spend long moments feeling the sword's texture and shape under his skin, before wrapping his fingers around its hilt. He would let white snow thaw in his palm, until only a cold wet trace remained. His hand would linger on every touch they shared, indulging in the warmth of her skin. One night she had been tending to his stump, tying the bandages gently with her fingers, when the unruly strand of hair fell over her eyes; his hand had reached as if on impulse and tucked it back behind her ear. She had raised her head abruptly, owlish blue eyes staring, his fingers lightly tracing the line of her jaw as he drew them back.

 


End file.
